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[..] They hate us. They want us dead. And now we have the proof. And there he was—Steven. Exhibit A. The perfect villain in the perfect storm.
I sat there, lit by the glow of my phone screen, feeling like I was watching someone I once knew disappear in real time. Tweet by tweet, frame by frame, he was becoming something unrecognizable, not just to them, but to me. Maybe to himself.
I practically burst through the door at Ashley's apartment, swooshing the train of my dress inside before slamming it behind me. "What are you doing Steven?! What are you SAYING?! You're destroying your career—your life! You don't actually believe any of this!" He looked up from the couch, totally calm. Hit send on another tweet.
I looked down at my phone. He wasn't doubling down—he was tripling down, quadrupling down. Every minute, more fire. He was blowing up everything. His career, his reputation, maybe even his mind. "WHY do you even have a problem with this, Lauren?" he snapped playfully. "This is what your side does all the time. You cheer when protesters die. Why the fuck can't my side do it?"
"That's not what this is, and you know it" I marched over and grabbed the phone out of his hand.
"HEY—give me that" he shouted, half-laughing, half-panicked.
"I'm serious, Steven. You're going to regret this."
I pushed him back with one arm, holding the phone out of reach with the other, frantically trying to delete tweets off his timeline. i managed to nuke one starting an argument with Matt Walsh and another caustic reply to a thread afterwards. "STOP! You can't delete those!" he yelled, lunging toward me. "I'll look crazy if I delete them now!"
"You'll look crazy if you don't!"
I kept swiping the phone just out of reach, dangling it over the edge of the couch while scrolling. Steven leaned in, reaching for my wrist, and we started to tip as Steven got a hold of the device. Then we rolled. Straight over the couch. The phone shot out of Steven's hand mid-roll and clattered across the hardwood, skidding all the way into the kitchen. For a second we both froze—propped up on our arms, breathing hard, eyes locked like we were playing a deranged game of capture the flag. Then we bolted. Steven scrambled forward just as my hand slapped the floor, landing inches short. He snatched the phone with a triumphant grin, raising it above his head like he'd just scored a touchdown.[2]
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